Princess Floralinda and the Forty-Flight Tower - Tamsyn Muir Page 0,26

the edge.

This process took all of one hot, dirty evening, but by the end of it Floralinda had a long wooden shaft sharpened to a wicked point. It had split a bit in parts, but it was quite nicely done for a first-timer, as Floralinda did everything Cobweb told her to do.

“That’s your weapon,” said Cobweb. “The only thing you need to know about it is that you can thrust it. It’s not fancy; you can’t do anything interesting with it. You just stand and push it into something else, which you have proved that even you can do, on a good day.”

And that was Princess Floralinda’s introduction to the spear.

In the dying days of summer, long past the full moon, Floralinda had to get up very early and practise holding it, and thrusting it forward, all of which was very dull: and they had no india-rubber balls, and so Cobweb made her squeeze smoother chunks of broken brick. She was forced to tie her lovely long hair back, and sort of pin it up over her head, so that it did not get in her way; and she did not like how she looked in the mirror, but at least she was not everlastingly pushing curls out of her face. She did not know that Cobweb was really doing this to get her own back rather than to teach Floralinda anything, but Floralinda became familiar with holding the pole, and far too familiar with squeezing lumps of rock. Her fingernails often came off, and she became pale and sad, and her mouth got lumps in it.

“You need better food,” said Cobweb. “Just because you won’t die without it doesn’t mean that you don’t need nourishment. You are too weak-minded to get strong on thought alone.”

This was a little more to Princess Floralinda’s tastes than being told she needed a weapon, especially when Cobweb added, “Like a beefsteak, or kidneys; something with protein.”

“Red meat is bad for the complexion,” said Floralinda.

“So is anaemia,” said Cobweb. “You can’t think how delicate human beings are; they can’t just eat nasturtium petals, or drink spring dew, as anybody normal might. They need all kinds of variety or their hair drops off. You’ve really saddled me with an awful burden here.”

Floralinda had hoped that fairy-magic might be used to procure a beefsteak, using beefsteak wishes, but Cobweb just laughed at her. The fairy was unkinder than ever when she laughed, because now Cobweb was really frightened too. Floralinda regretted then that she hadn’t made Cobweb a boy, as perhaps she would have been less scared.

“Just be quiet and do as I say,” commanded the fairy.

Which Floralinda had, unfortunately, agreed to.

So Floralinda crumbled up some of the loaf into breadcrumbs under Cobweb’s instructions, and left breadcrumbs out on the broad windowsill for the birds, who were now getting hungry as it got colder; and Floralinda stood very still among the sparrows as they alighted down and feasted on the bread, and then—whump!—got them with the pillow; and I am sorry to say Cobweb wrung their poor necks. Floralinda plucked what feathers she could and burnt the rest off on the fire; and she roasted them on sticks, and ate them!

The first time Floralinda roasted those sparrows she thought she couldn’t possibly. She knew nothing about cleaning birds, and had never had any interactions with poultry aside from broiled guinea-fowl and chicken-breast. Anyone who has ever dealt with a whole little bird knows that they are very small amounts of meat and mostly bones and insides; and then there was Cobweb, saying cruelly, “You’ve got to eat it; you won’t get strong otherwise,” just like every awful grandmother who ever was.

And I am sorrier to say that Floralinda ate those sparrows, bluetits and songbirds up, even the insides, and on those first nights when they caught and ate them she slept well for the first time in a while.

How those first autumn nights nipped! Floralinda had to make a sort of cloak from a blanket, and cut holes in it and wear it, and even then she thought she was cold. It was a pathetic sight in those days to see Floralinda in her blanket-coat, holding that spear and squeezing bricks, being told savage things by a fairy, and spending her nights sucking sparrow-bones clean, and sighing over it, and having tears prick at her blue eyes every time she thought about how sweet sparrows were.

But that was not the end of the sparrows’ woes (in